Spine

by Steven Jenkins

  How stupid am I—the machine hasn’t even started yet. It hasn’t even been two minutes let alone two years.

  So why can’t I move my body.

  It must be part of the process…before I lose consciousness. Yeah, that’s it. It’s just taking a little longer than I thought. Nothing to worry about.

  Just a little glitch.

  Colin tried to move his arm without luck. What’s wrong with me? Is it supposed to be like this? Panic suddenly washed over his paralysed body. Doctor Williams! I think there’s something wrong. Doctor Williams didn’t respond. And then he watched Stacey blow a kiss to him just before she left the room with her mother. Don’t go yet! Something’s wrong! Get some—

  Another wave of panic hit him when he realised that he hadn’t said a single word. Jesus Christ, everything’s frozen—even my voice. How the hell am I going to get a message to Doctor Williams?

  As the minutes passed by, turning into hours, all Colin’s head could scream was: HELP ME!

  Time no longer applied to Colin. He had lost his mind to madness and regained it countless times. Even his dreams were mixed with reality; a nightmare he was unable to shake off. His thoughts had become ramblings rather than anything coherent. Nothing seemed real anymore.

  Not the loneliness of his solitude.

  Not the horrifying claustrophobia of the metal coffin.

  Not the disappearance of his beloved wife.

  And especially not Stacey’s thin, grey hair…

  The Home

  Chapter 1

  Nancy Rees walked into the empty staff room, exhausted even before her nightshift had begun. Four in a row and it showed. Her eyes stung and her head pounded. Sleeping in the day should be straight forward enough; block out the light, switch off the phone. But nothing is ever that easy. And for Nancy, another day without a decent sleep was enough to push her over the edge. One word out of Raymond and his bloody back, or Pauline and her arthritis, and she would surely lose it.

  But she wasn’t the only one who suffered with sleep deprivation. Shelly Hughes, her boss, her mentor, and her best friend also suffered from the same affliction. But at least they shared the same shift rotation at Stanfield Nursing Home. Those long, boring nightshifts were always better, always more bearable with her at the helm. And those late and early hours could get lonely and dull.

  But, above all else…bloody scary.

  For the past six months, Nancy had been hearing noises, seeing strange figures standing in corridors, sitting on supposedly vacated beds. But for the staff at Stanfield, it was common practise to talk about ghosts. After all, it was a nursing home for the elderly, and the elderly in Stanfield never lasted that long. Six months tops. A year if they were lucky. Or unlucky according to Nancy. Working for so many years as a carer, she’d seen so many residents lose all sense of dignity, hope, even humanity, the thought of ending up like one of them terrified her to her very soul. But that fear, that hatred for getting old, for losing everything that you hold dear in your life was also the reason she worked there. After all, someone had to care for these poor people; someone had to hold their hand when faced with looming death. If she was part of the help, part of the solution, at least she could ease their suffering, even just a fraction. Maybe pave the way for when she ended up in a place like this.

  But not Stanfield. Definitely not here.

  Shelly brought Nancy a cup of coffee, two sugars, no milk. She set it down on the desk and then sat on the chair. Nancy smiled, picked up the cup, and blew on it. “Thanks, Shell,” Nancy said, taking a cautious sip of her coffee. “Any biscuits?”

  “All gone. Jackie had the last this afternoon.”

  “Bloody hell. There were loads left.”

  “I know, but you know what she’s like. One’s never enough.”

  Nancy shook her head and then rolled her eyes. “You’re telling me.” She blew on the coffee again and took another sip. “Any chocolate?”

  “Nope. That’s gone too.”

  “Unbelievable! That’s what we get for working the nightshift.”

  “Yep. Always has been, always will be. I’m staying away from chocolate though. Frank and I have joined the gym. We both need to lose some weight.”

  “The gym. Oh well done, Shell—good for you.”

  “Don’t bring out the champagne just yet, Nancy, we’ve only been twice. But it’s pretty cheap. And we get a husband and wife discount.”

  “Well I’m glad you’re doing something positive, Shell. I bet Frank is hating it.”

  “Hate—it’s like torture for him. I’ve never seen him so red in the face.”

  Nancy laughed and took another sip of coffee.

  Leaning back on her desk chair, Shelly put her hands behind her head. “How’s Kenneth been tonight? He hasn’t buzzed in a while.”

  “Not sure,” Nancy replied, shaking her head. “Haven’t been down Stepney Wing yet. I’ll pop down after my coffee.”

  “Good luck with that wing. I’m sure it’s haunted.”

  “I know, Shell. And it’s not just that wing. I’m sure this whole place is getting creepier by the day.”

  “It probably feels like that ‘cause it’s getting so run down.”

  “I thought they approved your renovations bid.”

  Shelly nodded. “They did. But it won’t be ‘til next summer. Too many other things to spend the money on.”

  “Like?”

  “Bigger salaries for the bloody owners, that’s what.”

  Nancy shook her head and took another swig of her coffee. “Typical. Well, as long as they don’t try to take away our coffee. Then they’ll really have a fight on their hands.”

  Shelly chuckled.

  The resident call-alarm buzzed loudly. It was coming from Margret Jonson’s room.

  Nancy and Shelly winced simultaneously.

  “That thing is too bloody loud,” Shelly moaned, scowling hard. “Especially this late.”

  “Tell me about it.” Nancy set her coffee on the desk and got up off her chair. “I’ll go, Shell.”

  “Thanks, Nancy.” Shelly took out a key and handed it over to her. “The poor woman will probably need her painkillers. Get some out of the cabinet, will you?”

  “No problem.”

  Nancy left the staff room, heading for the supply room.

  Chapter 2

  Once Nancy had seen to Margret, she made her way towards Stepney Wing to start her checks.

  There was something very wrong, very sinister with Stepney Wing. Nancy wasn’t sure if it was just the grey decor, or the horrid black and white pictures of the place, taken when it first opened almost seventy years ago. At night, the corridors were always dimly lit with a series of safety lights that ran across the ceiling. Enough for a safe exit—but not enough to keep the shadows from playing tricks with the mind.

  Pushing through the double doors, Nancy walked along the corridor, passing the room that belonged to Sidney Taylor. Eighty-eight years old and completely senile. He always made her laugh though, no matter how frustrating he could be at times. He had that way about him, like a comical child, or the drunken joker at a wedding. Nancy glanced through the glass panel at the top of the door. Fast asleep.

  Poor bastard, Nancy thought. Another day looking forward to waking in this dump. Sidney had no family. His wife had died fifteen years ago—breast cancer—and his son, his two grandkids, had emigrated to Australia. Nancy hated the fact that families could be so cruel, so selfish, and just leave supposed loved ones there to die. Witnessing all these people, all lost to the world they once knew, made her think of her parents. She wondered how she would feel when the day came for them to check in. The idea of them sitting alone in a shithole like Stanfield sent a shudder of repulsion down her body.

  Not my parents. Not if I have any say in the matter.

  Nancy moved on to the next room; Violet Davies. Also fast asleep. Nancy didn’t know much about this lady, apart from her age, ninety-four, and the fact that she had an arr
ay of close family visits. Violet had only been at Stanfield for a week. She’d lived with her daughter until her Alzheimer’s became too much of a burden. Usual story.

  Alzheimer’s terrified Nancy. Two of her grandparents had had it, and the thought of going through such hell made her wonder how anyone could live with such a vile disease.

  The next room was empty. And it had been since last month when Peter Phillips died. Despite how close Nancy got to the old man, it was hard for her to feel anything but relief that he was no longer a resident of this place. Of course, she missed their little chats, sitting on the windowsill, both staring out into Stanfield gardens, moaning about how the world was not how it used to be, and the young no longer had any manners. Nancy was only fifty-one herself, but even she could relate to everything that was on his mind. And his mind was sound, no memory loss, no confusion, just constant pain, twenty-four-seven. Nancy wouldn’t want to live like that, nor did Shelly. That’s where the relief came from. Nancy felt sorry for Peter’s daughter, but only when he was alive; having to watch him screaming in agony on every visit must have taken its toll on the poor woman.

  But now he was gone, like so many before him.

  Nancy continued her inspection, checking on Kenneth Henry, the ex-accountant, and Peggy Simpson, whose profession eluded Nancy. Both residents were fast asleep, safe and sound.

  Pausing for a moment, Nancy noticed the door to the furthest room hanging wide open. She was certain she had locked it after Yvonne Turner’s son came for her things yesterday. Yvonne had passed away peacefully in her sleep just three days ago. She was Stanfield’s oldest resident, ninety-eight years old. She was desperate to make it to a century, so she could get a letter from the Queen. But the Multiple Sclerosis got a little too much to tolerate.

  As she fretfully approached the room, Nancy’s pulse sped up a little. This annoyed her. Why did this place scare her so much? Was it just the late-night isolation? The campfire ghost stories? Or was it something else?

  Reaching the open doorway, she peered inside, and then switched on the light. The bed was stripped of sheets and blankets, the shelves and bedside table were bare, and the window was shut. Must have been one of the afternoon girls, she thought. She switched off the light and closed the door. Pulling out a bunch of keys from her pocket, she located the room key, locked the door, and then made her way back down the corridor.

  Walking a little faster than usual, she quickly gave another glance into each room as she passed. Even though Peter was dead, she found herself, out of habit, glancing into his room, still continuing her stride back towards the staff room.

  Her heart jolted when she saw someone.

  A man, sitting on the windowsill, staring out into Stanfield gardens.

  Stopping in her tracks, she went back to the glass panel of his door and looked inside again. This time the windowsill was empty. Nancy shook her head in disbelief. How could her mind be so easily fooled by such drivel? She was meant to be a rational woman.

  But Stanfield had a strange effect on its staff.

  Chapter 3

  For the very next nightshift, Nancy almost called in sick. She hadn’t slept a wink all day and was desperate for this week to be over. She dropped her handbag on the chair, took her coat off and hung it on the back of the staff-room door. Shelly was busy seeing to a resident from Stradey Wing, and the evening staff had just left Stanfield. She sat down on the chair and groaned loudly, relieved that she was alone. Even though Shelly had become one of her closest friends, Nancy knew that her boss would only put up with so much slacking off. There was a stack of work to get on with, the sitting room needed cleaning, the kitchen was a mess, and most importantly, Margret’s belongings needed to be boxed up before her family came for them.

  Margret had passed away in the early hours of the morning.

  Shelly had discovered her body during her rounds. Nancy had grown fond of the eighty-six year old woman. Margret always carried a smile on her face. She had seen it all; lived it, breathed it, loved it. Never complained about the way things ended. Never whined about the excruciating pain she felt, day in day out, and the indignity of sitting in her own urine. Always optimistic about how wonderful life was. But Nancy could see through the act, through the brave face. No one should have to live like that—especially someone as pleasant as Margret Jonson.

  Shelly walked into the staff room, a welcoming smile on her face. “Hi, Nancy. How are you tonight?”

  Nancy shook her head. “Knackered, Shell. Didn’t get a wink of sleep again. Just can’t get seem to drop off.”

  “Too much on your mind I bet.”

  “Tell me about it. If it isn’t the stress of working the nightshift,” Nancy let out a dispirited sigh, “it’s losing so many residents.”

  “Oh, I know. Margret was such a lovely old lady. It’s so sad to see her go. Probably for the best though. Her quality of life was so poor. I’d hate to end up like that.”

  “I know. Me neither.”

  “Yeah. Very sad business.” Shelly shook her head. “Such a shame.”

  “Do you want me to sort out her belongings now, or after I’ve sorted out the kitchen?”

  “It’s up to you, Nancy. I’m easy. As long as it’s done.”

  “Okay. I’ll do it later then, during my rounds.”

  “No problem.” Shelly walked over to her handbag, which was hanging on the door-hook, and pulled out a large packet of chocolate biscuits. “These’ll cheer you up. I stole them from Frank.”

  Nancy beamed.

  Nancy had spent the last two hours scrubbing Stanfield’s kitchen floor. Even though it wasn’t in her job description, cleaning always took her mind off the loss of any residents. It had become part of a ritual. One person dies, something gets cleaned. If it wasn’t at work, it was something at home.

  Lately, Nancy’s home was always spotless.

  Once she could see her reflection in the floor, she washed her hands in the kitchen sink, dried them with a towel, and then headed towards Autumn Wing—and Margret Jonson’s old room.

  Autumn Wing was the oldest in the building. Even on a bright summer’s day this corridor gave her the creeps; the flaking plaster on the walls, the old photos of staff and residents from days gone by. There were only six bedrooms, three along each side. Nancy, carrying two cardboard boxes she had picked up from the storeroom, peeped into each room through the glass as she approached Margret’s door. All five residents fast asleep.

  Pulling out her bunch of keys from her pocket, she located the correct one and unlocked Margret’s door. She flicked the light switch on and entered. The room was tiny, probably the smallest in the wing. There was a wardrobe, two plastic chairs for visitors to sit on, a chest of drawers, and a small cabinet next to the single bed, which was pressed up against the white wall. The beige curtains were still closed from when Shelly found her this morning. Nancy pulled them open, ready for the sun to colour the room in the morning. She then opened the wardrobe and started to fill the boxes with clothes and shoes. Next, she emptied out each drawer from the chest and managed to fill both boxes right to the top.

  On the bedside cabinet, she picked up a framed photo of Margret’s deceased husband, standing next to her daughter, who was about five years old in the picture. Nancy stared at it and smiled, but then her smile disappeared as it reminded her of her own daughter, Carol, and her late husband, Michael. It had been almost nine years since he died of pancreatic cancer. Such a painful way to go. But the saddest thing had been having to watch a strong man unfold, wither away to nothing, right in front of her and Carol’s eyes. Trying to stay strong for her and Michael was hard enough, but putting on a brave face for Carol was too much. Still, she’d done it. She’d had to. Carol was only seventeen when her father passed. It took Nancy nearly a month after the funeral to really grieve for the man she loved, the man she met in school, her first real crush. Adjusting to a life without him, a life sleeping in a bed made for two, had been excruciating. However, the gu
ilt of allowing him to suffer, to beg for relief, every minute of every day, was easily the most difficult to cope with. Working always helped to take her mind off the pain. Even now. But the eerily silent nightshifts, the constant reminder of death, always put Michael’s sad end back to the forefront of her mind. But as long she kept busy, as long as she had good friends, family, to talk to, she could just about get through the day. Life went on.

  But in Stanfield, so did death.

  Inside the cabinet, she saw three bottles of lemonade, two bags of orange sweets, and several packets of crisps. She squeezed everything into the boxes, including the photo frame, jewellery and reading glasses. Groaning, Nancy sat on the dead woman’s bed, exhausted, ready to lie back and fall asleep.

  Could I? she mused, naughtily. But then she smiled, shaking her head. Just need a sit down for five minutes. That’s all.

  As the minutes rolled by, staring, daydreaming into space, she thought about how wonderful a good night’s sleep would be. Last nightshift for two weeks, and Nancy was counting down the hours. Don’t know how the hell people can do this all the time. I think I’d go stir crazy.

  Just as she was about to get off the bed, she spotted Margret’s pink slipper wedged between the bed and the cabinet. She reached forward and picked it up, and then walked over to one of the full boxes, placing the slipper on top of the pile. She scanned the room for the other pink slipper. The brown carpet was bare, apart from a bin, overflowing with sweet wrappers and tissues. Frowning, she knelt down and looked under the bed. Straightaway she spotted the stray slipper; it was far back in the corner, next to the leg directly below the headboard. Lying on her side, Nancy stretched out her arm and tried to grab the slipper, only to be short a good few inches. Sighing in frustration, she wormed her body completely under the bed. “I’m too old for this shit,” she muttered to herself. Just as she took hold of the slipper, she heard the sound of footsteps in the room. “Is that you, Shell?” she called out. No reply. Struggling to crawl out, she saw two bare feet standing at the foot of the bed. The feet of a thin, elderly person. “Who’s that?” she asked, but had no response. Assuming that it must be one of the residents, she continued to wriggle out from under the bed.